


searching slow in the dark

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fake Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14546061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Bobby is notoriously frugal. He can't help it, it's the way he's always been. So when Thierry proposes they get married, tax benefits are a convenient excuse for words spoken in the heat of the moment.It turns out that marriage to the object of your affections isn't really a great way to get over them.





	searching slow in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).



> Thank you for choosing this fic and this pairing. I hope you like it <3
> 
> Title from Jason Isbell, If We Were Vampires

  
  


Bobby takes Thierry’s suitcase, heaving it over his shoulder with an exaggerated gasp, even though it’s a rolling suitcase and they’re walking on asphalt.

 

“What are you carting around in here?” Bobby asks. “Hair care products?”

 

Thierry rolls his eyes, mouth twitching. “My spare suits,” he says, “I figured I would have to lend you some if I wanted to be seen in public with you since I can’t trust you to dress.”

 

Bobby laughs, shaking his head. “You wound me,” he says, “this shirt was on discount.”

 

“You’re worth a couple million,” Thierry points out dryly.

 

“I could never give up on a bargain,” Bobby declares, gripping the bottom of the shirt to stretch it, showing off.

 

It’s a nice shirt, if a bit too patterned, but it’s the giant straw hat that’s making Thierry break out in hives.

 

“And where did you get the hat?” he asks when they reach Bobby’s car. “Steal it off a scarecrow or…?”

 

“How dare you,” Bobby gasps, “this is Armani.”

 

Thierry doubles over, choking on his laughter and the midday sun melts the worries out of his shoulder. A glance at Bobby’s smug grin lets him know that it was intentional.

 

“You really have no idea what is va-va-voom,” Thierry says and the old reference has Bobby doubling over.

  
  


*

 

The first time they met, Thierry hated him. Robert Pires and even his name seemed to mock him, from its sharp vowels down to his crisp new cleats. 

 

Thierry, hand-me-downs and a burning desire to prove himself, labelled him the enemy. It’s not personal. Most things felt like an enemy in those days.

 

His anger was slightly mollified when he caught Bobby carefully comparing two pastries on sale. He had the same look in his eye as Thierry’s mother when it came time to buy groceries for the week.

 

Bobby took the cheaper one and Thierry felt a brief flash of satisfaction before he realized that it was the last one. And then he was a pit of rage again.

  
  


*

 

Thierry doesn’t know when vacationing at Bobby’s house in Reims became a thing he did, but it is one now, pencilled into his schedule months in advance. Bobby is always happy to see him and every time, it takes Thierry off guard how much he enjoys his company. He figured that at some point he’d get tired of it, but that hasn’t happened yet.

 

The kitchen table is full of papers. Thierry raises an eyebrow at it and Bobby sighs, waving him off.

 

“You don’t need a full spread, right? We can just eat at the breakfast nook,” he says.

 

Thierry shrugs. “Sure, but what are all the papers for?”

 

“Taxes,” Bobby sighs. 

 

Thierry laughs incredulously. “Don’t you have an accountant?” he asks.

 

“Yeah, but I’ve got to check over their work, right? Just in case.”

 

“Huh,” Thierry says, tilting his head. “I don’t suppose you could check mine too?”

 

“Not on your life,” Bobby says, dryly. “Who knows what kind of shit you spend your money on? Didn’t you spend a thousand on that ugly float just recently?”

 

“It’s shaped like a swan! It’s cute!”

  
  


*

 

It’s a lovely evening, the alcohol and Bobby’s voice a pleasant buzz in his ears. The soft chill of the evening has washed away the dry heat of the day, and Bobby’s hand is warm where it’s resting on his knee. His eyes are liquid dark in the lamplight and the food is a pleasant weight in Thierry’s stomach. 

 

“We should get married,” Thierry says. 

 

It’s a lovely evening.

 

Bobby goes silent, his story cut off and he stares at Thierry with confusion wrinkling his brow. “What?” he asks.

 

Thierry’s eyes dart around, avoiding Bobby’s questioning look, trying to find a way to explain away the burning path of the words in his mouth. His gaze catches on the pile of papers on the kitchen table, the edge of it visible through the wide-open double doors.

 

“For taxes,” he says.

 

“What,” Bobby repeats.

 

“If we get married, we get tax benefits and there’ll be less paperwork.” 

 

“Tax benefits,” Bobby says faintly.

 

Thierry is committed now. It’s been both a blessing and a curse over the years that once he commits to something he can’t let it go. He’d decided to be a professional footballer and that’s what he became. He’d decided that he could marry Bobby Pires and, well-

 

“It’s a good idea,” Thierry tells him. “We work well together.”

 

“But, marriage, Thierry?” Bobby says, a note of desperation to his voice.

 

“It’s just a piece of paper,” Thierry says, dismissive. It seems suddenly very important to him to be able to stay here. Really, if he wanted to, he could buy the property next to his, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to be here, in this house, with Bobby, and have quiet evenings together, with wine and good food and Bobby’s laughter echoing in his ribcage.

 

He can’t say any of that to Bobby, so he swallows it back. “It’ll be fun,” he says instead.

,

Bobby’s expression clears. Fun, he knows. And suddenly, there’s a gleam in his eyes, the very same one that got them thrown out of a pub in London, or dancing with a drag troupe in Rio. And Thierry knows he’s won.

 

“Okay,” Bobby says. “Let’s get married.”

 

Thierry unwinds a string marking the make of the bottle from the champagne and solemnly ties it around Bobby’s ring finger. He must be drunker than he thought because his hands shake. In his hand, Bobby’s palm is very smooth and very warm.

 

*

 

“I thought when their kind gets married they go all out on the wedding dress,” says a man behind them in line. Maybe he intended it to be a joke to his spouse to be and didn’t intend for it to carry so far in the echoing courthouse. Or maybe he had, and he didn’t care who else heard.

 

Instinctively, Thierry looks down at himself to check that his suit was still in place. It is. Perfectly tailored in a dove grey, the fabric soft against his fingers where he pinches a sleeve. Paired with a deep wine red tie, it felt like appropriate attire for a wedding, even one as spontaneous as this one. He’d ordered it delivered to Reims the day after the proposal when it became obvious that Bobby wouldn’t be backing out.

 

As if sensing the shift in his thoughts, Bobby appears at the door of the office, grinning widely. “Our marriage licence got approved!” he says, waving a thin stack of papers in the air.

 

“That’s great.” Thierry steps forward to meet him, putting his hands on the lapels of Bobby’s jacket, straightening them and fixing his tie, even though it isn’t crooked. Bobby watches him do it with a slightly confused but fond expression on his face and something in Thierry’s chest coils tight.

 

“Thierry?” Bobby asks quietly.

 

“Someone implied that one of us should be wearing a wedding dress,” Thierry says, neutrally, watching something shadow behind Bobby’s jovial expression. “But I’d look terrible in a dress.”

 

Bobby hums under his breath. “You have the legs for it,” he says, reaching out to tap Thierry on his right hip, voice pitched to carry. There’s an outraged gasp behind them as he reaches over to pinch Thierry’s ass as well, mischief in his eyes.

 

“Thank you,” Thierry says, flustered despite himself, “maybe some other time though.”

 

He takes the stack of papers from Bobby’s unresisting fingers, links their arms together and leads them away, ignoring the muttering behind them.

 

*

 

It leaks to the media because of course. Thierry would have to be dumb to expect otherwise and he doesn’t fancy himself one usually. Except when he’s suddenly asking his best friend to marry him, but that’s a specific kind of foolishness that has nothing to do with his IQ and everything to do with the fact that he’d been slightly in love with him for years now.

 

The reporters gather in droves at Bobby’s front gate. Bobby had spotted one with a camera on a tree outside their window and called the police to pick him up, and the rest haven’t tried any similar stunts.

 

Thierry loads some water and juice on a tray and takes it out to them.

 

“Is it true that you’re married to Robert Pires?” 

 

“How long have you been together?”

 

“How come no one was invited to your secret wedding?”

 

“We didn’t want to foot the alcohol bill,” Thierry says, calmly pouring a glass of juice and handing it out.

 

“Are you gay?”

 

“What’s the sex like?”

 

“That’s really personal,” Thierry says, and the reporter has the grace to look a little bit ashamed, sipping on his glass of water.

 

“Will you return to your commentating job soon?”

 

Thierry still has a job. Probably. To be honest, he hasn’t been checking his phone. They wouldn’t fire him over a secret gay wedding, but they might if he doesn’t show up for any of the dress rehearsals. 

 

“I guess I’m stuck as a housewife for a while,” he jokes. 

 

*

 

Bobby is delighted.

 

“You’re my housewife now, huh?” he asks and Thierry groans.

 

“It was a joke!” he says, despairing, “a joke!”

 

Bobby makes a thoughtful noise under his breath. “Probably for the best,” he points out. “You can’t cook and I’ve never seen you clean.”

 

“How dare you,” Thierry says, drawing up to his full height, fighting a smile, “I’ll have you know that my scrambled eggs are a wonder.”

 

“Your scrambled eggs usually start off as the promise of an omelette,” Bobby points out, “and you always overcook them.”

 

“I want a divorce,” Thierry yells, “I won’t stand for this slander.”

 

*

 

They don’t share a bed.

 

Not that Thierry expected them to, honestly. They’re not married for real, just so Bobby can gleefully tell him how much they’re saving on taxes every morning at breakfast. While they drink imported coffee and freshly baked croissants. While the morning sunlight highlights the grey in Bobby’s hair and Thierry looks at the newspaper instead.

 

They don’t share a bed because this isn’t some bad romantic comedy where an inspector would be entitled to judge the validity of their marriage. In the eye of the law, they’re officially married. And if they don’t share a bed, or kiss, or touch beyond what cursory and friendly, then. well. That’s no one’s problem but their own. Or rather, it seems to be mostly Thierry’s problem.

 

Bobby seems to be fine with the way things are, so Thierry is going to be fine as well. Marriage is all about patience, after all.

 

*

 

Despite beating Bobby to London by a whole season, Thierry didn’t really settle in until he came. 

 

See, the thing about Bobby was that he could fit in anywhere. He made swift connections with people where Thierry was only ever able to do that on the field. Teammates looked up to Bobby, not just because he was a good player, but because he was charming and funny and genuinely interested in other people. Thierry had to learn to be like that, and as a result, he never felt like he got it right.

 

This is just to say that Bobby could have chosen to hang around anybody else. Sure, his English was atrocious and would remain like that for a good number of years, but there were plenty other Frenchmen to foster friendships with. Instead, Bobby clung to Thierry.

 

By then, they had played in a number of national and senior youth teams together. Thierry had mostly shed his adolescent anger at the rest of the world, and consequently at Bobby. He was ashamed enough to even go out of his way to be friendly to Bobby, but he wouldn’t have considered them friends before Arsenal.

 

He was also old enough to know that his childhood infatuation with Bobby’s face was, in fact, a fairly textbook example of a crush. He was young enough to believe that it wouldn’t matter.

 

But Bobby kept visiting him, with food or with drinks or with a shitty rented movie, because they still did that kind of thing back then. And this would have been fine. This could have been a friendship only, as much as Thierry kept finding himself caught up in the darkness of Bobby’s eyes.

 

But Bobby kept sending him these passes. Crisp, precise and perfect passes. Thierry’s first love was football, always and forever, and the way to his heart was always going to be through the ball at his feet. He fell. Hard.

 

And that was all she wrote, as the English would say. 

 

Bobby was dating Natalie when they met, and the divorce left Thierry picking up the pieces, luring Bobby away from a bottle with bad movies and worse consolations. Thierry was never even on his radar, which was ironic since that was when Thierry finally grew into his face and stood out to what felt like the rest of the world. 

 

He got over his crush on Bobby, eventually. Mostly. You know how it is. 

 

Not nearly well enough, probably, if he was proposing marriage under the flimsiest excuse known to man.

 

*

 

The newspapers still haven’t tired of them and news of their Scandalous Wedding™. There’s at least one article per day about them, each more outlandish than the last. Thierry reads them to Bobby at lunch, embellishes the details to get Bobby choking on his laughter. 

 

It’s funny, in a way, how many supposed “close friends” had seen it coming. Thierry certainly hadn’t, and he had been the one proposing. Still, the stories don’t really impact them, except when they hit a little bit close to home.

 

Like when they post photos of them celebrating at Arsenal, trophy in Thierry’s hands and Bobby’s hands around his shoulders, both of them grinning in celebration. Thierry lingers over those before showing them to Bobby.

 

Tries not to read into the slow fond smile that spreads across his face. The rest is drivel and speculation, and hysterically funny for it.

 

However, there’s one article that does end up impacting them, though in a rather unexpected way.

 

“Oh, this is an exclusive,” Thierry reads out loud, “‘Lovebirds Henry and Pires spotted on honeymoon in Madeira.”

 

He looks up, raising an eyebrow at Bobby. “Have you been on any islands with other handsome men recently?”

 

Bobby hums under his breath, a smile growing. “Please, have you seen my tan? I’m as pale as a ghost,” he says. “And no other handsome men would want me.”

 

Thierry can’t suppress a pleased smile at the compliment. Privately, he thinks that there are probably plenty handsome men that would want a piece of Bobby. He doesn’t say it though - Bobby has a big head as it is.

 

“And you haven’t taken me on any honeymoons that I can recall,” Thierry says. Bobby’s face turns thoughtful.

 

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t take you to anywhere associated with Cristiano Ronaldo,” Bobby says.

 

And Thierry honestly doesn’t mean anything by it. “Where would you take me, then?” he asks.

 

*

 

A private island, it turns out.

 

“It was cheaper than the five-star hotel I was originally thinking of,” Bobby tells him, insisting on showing him the AirBnB receipts again, as Thierry stresses over stowing their suitcases in the overhead compartment.

 

The flight to Belize takes hours and Thierry dozes off, wakes up with his head on Bobby’s shoulder, wakes up blearily to eat and listen to Bobby complain about the prices in the in-flight magazine, then falls asleep again. There’s another hour’s boat ride to the private island, but the sight of the waves and the salty cool breeze settle him back into his body. 

 

Bobby’s had boat motion sickness since Thierry’s known him and has pretended he doesn’t have any for about the same amount of time, but even he can’t hide the sigh of relief when their feet hit the sand. 

 

The island villa is beautiful in the evening, lit up against the red of the sunset, all smooth white marble and wood, with huge sprawling windows that don’t even attempt at an illusion of privacy, since there are no neighbours around for miles.

 

Thierry is struck dumb by it. After so long in the world’s glare, the privacy of the island, of the house, seems almost frightening. 

 

Bobby’s hand slips into his own. “C’mon,” he says, “I’ve got the keys.”

 

There’s dinner warming in pots on the stove and Bobby points out the villa that houses the staff, on an island opposite and hidden from immediate view by strategically planted trees. 

 

Thierry just shakes his head incredulously.

 

*

 

There’s only one bed.

 

Thierry should have seen that coming, probably, but it literally hadn’t occurred to him until this moment when he’s watching Bobby absent-mindedly turn back the covers and unpack his silk pyjamas out of his suitcase.

 

“Those have no va-va voom either,” Thierry chokes out and Bobby grins, does a little shimmy while doing up his buttons, and it’s shit like this that made Thierry fall in love with him in the first place.

 

Rather than a beautiful four-poster bed with sheet thread counts in the four digits, the double bed suddenly seems as dangerous as a pit of vipers. Thierry swallows and goes to take a shower, hoping that by the time he comes back, Bobby will already be asleep. 

 

He does everything humanly possible to delay his exit from the bathroom, including slathering himself with a tub of shea butter he finds on the shelves. He spends the next five minutes precariously sliding across the tiled floor, only his honed balance keeping him from sliding directly into any of the enormous floor to ceiling mirrors.

 

His luck doesn’t improve when he eventually does come out of the bathroom. Bobby looks up from the book he’s reading and Thierry’s mouth goes impossibly dry at the sight of his reading glasses. The scene is so cozy and disgustingly domestic that Thierry’s heart does something painful in his chest.

 

“Took you a while,” Bobby comments idly.

 

Thierry shrugs. “My beauty routine,” he says, “I have to maintain my boyish good looks.”

 

Bobby’s loud braying laugh should be insulting, but it just makes Thierry smile.

 

Sliding between the pleasantly cool sheets on Bobby’s left is frightfully easy. Thierry doesn’t know why he expected it to be otherwise. They’re married, for fuck’s sake, Thierry should be better at this. 

 

He fusses with the sheet, nesting down, wrapping himself up. Bobby turns out the light, leaving them in quiet darkness.

 

Thierry turns over. And again. He punches a pillow, trying to get it to fit right under his head. His breathing is too loud.

 

“Stop moving so much,” Bobby says and Thierry goes as still as a stone.

 

Minutes pass. Thierry listens to the distant sound of waves, trying to muffle the sound of his breathing, the sound of Bobby’s breathing.

 

Bobby sighs. “Are you awake?” he whispers.

 

“No,” Thierry whispers back and Bobby snorts.

 

“Liar,” he says and Thierry bites his lip, guilt threatening to overwhelm him.

 

More silence.

 

“I think we need to talk,” Bobby says, and in the darkness, Thierry can hear him turning over to hit the light, which shines stark in his face. He throws himself boldly across the bed onto Bobby, grabbing his wrist and plunging them back into darkness. The wrestle for a moment until one of them pulls too sharply and the light falls off the nightstand, landing with a crash on the floor.

 

“Oops,” Thierry says. Bobby giggle-snorts from under him, which makes Thierry realize the position they’re in, and he scrambles away.

 

“See, that’s the thing I wanted to talk about,” Bobby says, a note of sadness in his voice. 

 

“We don’t need to talk!” Thierry says, quickly. “Everything is just fine.”

 

“Right,” Bobby sighs. “Listen - I didn’t marry you for the tax benefits.”

 

What.

 

“What?” Thierry says. “Then, why?”

 

Bobby makes a frustrated noise and turns to face him. Thierry sees only the barest shape of his face in the dark, washed monochrome by moonlight.

 

“Because, I wanted to,” he says. “I thought it was your way of finally making a move!”

 

Thierry gapes. “You thought...what?”

 

“That you liked me!” Bobby says insistently. “I figured you would say something after I agreed, but you didn’t!”

 

“And you just went along with it?” Thierry says, aware that his voice had taken on a shrill quality. “When were you going to say anything? It’s been months! We had dinner with my parents!”

 

“I thought you’d do it!” Bobby says, which is the dumbest thing Thierry has ever heard. He had trouble breathing around Bobby sometimes, how was he supposed to be able to talk about feelings?

 

Bobby’s “Aww, babe,” makes him realize that he’s said that out loud and he sinks deeper into the pillow in despair.

 

But his blurted out confession manages to break through the tension growing between them. Bobby shifts in the darkness. Closer. Enough for their legs to touch under the blankets.

 

“Do you remember when we first met?” Thierry asks.

 

“You hated me,” Bobby says.

 

“That’s true,” Thierry says, not bothering to deny it. “ Later then. Do you remember when you came to London?” 

 

“And I grabbed hold of you and clung on?” Bobby says, wryly. “I remember. It was embarrassing and in hindsight, kind of telling.”

 

Thierry swallows down the hope rising in his chest. “I wasn’t doing so well before you came,” he says. “I was lonely and homesick. But then you came, with your dumb accent and your dumb personality and you...you brought me groceries, remember? And then we made dinner.”

 

“We mostly burnt dinner,” Bobby says, with a smile in his voice, “but ate it anyway.”

 

“It felt like coming home, and I barely even knew you,” Thierry says in a small voice, “that hasn’t really changed. And at that moment on your patio, I don’t know what came over me, I just wanted it to feel like home forever so I just…”

 

He trails off. Bobby starts laughing softly, incredulously. “So you asked me to marry you?”

 

“It seemed like the best option at the time,” Thierry says, affronted. 

 

“For the record,” Bobby says, “you could have stayed, for as long as you wanted. You didn’t even have to ask. I love having you around.”

 

“Oh,” Thierry says. 

 

“And I love you, or whatever,” Bobby adds. “God knows why, when you apparently think I’d just marry anyone for tax benefits. It wasn’t even that much!”

 

“Oh,” Thierry says.

 

“Yeah,” Bobby says. “So, are you going to kiss me now, or am I going to have to ask for a divorce soon.”

 

“We didn’t sign a prenup,” Thierry says, closing the distance between them, “and you wouldn’t risk it.”

 

Bobby’s smartass remark is muffled by Thierry’s mouth. And, not to toot his own horn or anything, but Thierry is an excellent kisser.

 

“Wow, you’re an excellent kisser,” Bobby says when they pull back to breathe.

 

“Well, there should be something of benefit in this marriage, not just the taxes,” Thierry says, and then Bobby kisses him again and he forgets about everything else for a good long while.

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [Thierry's Renault ad called Va-Va-Voom. There's a little shoutout to Bobby right at the end.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrShrLl38Qs)


End file.
